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Back in Rome, the first Gaius Vinius knew was a clamour in the Praetorian Camp. When he emerged from his barracks block to investigate, he was told all leave had been cancelled and a full parade summoned. News had flown round. Men reappeared from all quarters of the city. The camp was soon packed. Tension was so palpable the air tingled.

It seemed Domitian Caesar had arrived in a state of high excitement. He galloped in and demanded the Guards’ protection and acclamation. Vinius saw him a short time later, his eyes so bright that he looked drugged, his face flushed, heavy sweat stains on his tunic. Any of Vinius’ resourceful aunts would have made the agitated prince open wide for a big spoonful of calming syrup, followed by a lie-down. Vinius himself thought the man needed a stiff drink among older, more equable friends, then a siesta with a couple of well-articulated dancing girls to put life in perspective. But real life had ended for ever for the impatient Caesar.

Domitian insisted his brother was dead. The Praetorian Prefect responded with caution, still nominally Titus’ man; he probably thought his own days would be numbered from the moment Titus was officially declared dead. Troops began talking amongst themselves of a large accession bonus — for most of them, their second in two years. Somebody said to Vinius in a speculative voice, ‘This should be good news for you!’ but the prospect of Domitian coming to power failed to fill him with joy.

A small mounted squadron was quietly despatched to Falacrina but met a sobbing messenger who confirmed the news. All kinds of rumours rapidly circulated. Most fanciful was the Jewish belief that when he destroyed the Temple at Jerusalem, Titus had slept with a prostitute and a gnat entered his ear, growing inside his head for years until he could no longer bear the noise of it. Perhaps the headaches he suffered were really malarial, though doctors seemed to doubt that. Popular belief was that Domitian’s plots had finally succeeded; one way or another, he had murdered Titus. More believable was that he had ordered Titus to be finished off by putting him into an ice-bath; but could this be a proper medical recourse for a patient with such a high fever? The certain truth was that Domitian abandoned Titus to die alone while he raced to Rome, indecently eager to replace his brother.

An announcement was sent from Domitian to the Senate. To his pique, the senators spent all the rest of that day applauding the virtues of Titus and grieving their loss of such a beloved leader. Theoretically they could hail anyone to follow him, which was the reason Domitian so hurriedly pleaded for Praetorian support. Only the next day did the senators appoint Domitian formally as successor. They would pay for their delay.

The Praetorian Prefect lined up the ranks. To a man, the nine thousand Guards dutifully swore the oath of allegiance to their new master, their mighty shout audible across large parts of the city and intentionally threatening. So, apart from the first year, Gaius Vinius would spend his service as a Praetorian Guard with Domitian as his emperor.

He swore the oath. He took the money. He supposed that he would do his duty.

6

Alba. The Alba Longa of the ancients, pride of Latium, chief city of the Latin League, whose kings claimed an unbroken line from Ascanius, son of Trojan Aeneas, to Romulus, founder of Rome. The lake, a deep volcanic crater with sheer sides is accounted the most beautiful in Italy. On a high sunlit ridge stands a five and a half square mile compound of elegant white buildings, centred on the Emperor’s enormous villa, built over the citadel of the old, lost town. This has been and will always be a holiday retreat for the best people. Its devotees say it has the best views in the world.

In high summer, it has the best houseflies. Or so the Alban flies believe.

High on a fold of drapery indoors, motionless against its deep Tyrrhenian purple hue, Musca broods, thinking up her next move. Her six feet have suckered onto the sumptuous cloth, so she hangs head-down with ease. Close by is an ornate plaster cove, creamy and delicate, its soft surface always welcoming. Less appeal belongs to the smooth polish of marble columns, though their patterning offers greater camouflage.

She fixes her attention on the human below. He sits, almost as motionless as she. He is a man who has obtained what he yearned for and now has to think what to do with it. By definition the people he most wanted to impress have died before him.

He could be asleep, but it is the fly’s business to be certain and she knows he is not.

He has failed to settle easily into his coveted role. He is the foremost man in the civilised world. Twenty nine legions in the front line provinces, plus nine elite cohorts of Praetorian Guards, three of the Urban Cohorts and seven of the vigiles, have all sworn, every man in them, allegiance to their new emperor. Son of a divine father, sibling to a newly deified brother, husband to an august wife, father of an august son. In Italy, and in every province throughout Europe, Asia and Africa, each man, woman and child now knows his name. They speak it with as much familiarity as if he were a relative; most honour him; some already revere him as a god. They erect statues of his wife; they love his infant son. Soon they will see his profile every time they hold coins. His statues will dominate marketplaces and basilicas at the ends of the Empire. Camel drovers and peat choppers, date harvesters and cinnabar miners, oyster fishers and ivory merchants will all be aware of him, the ruler who nominally cares for their welfare; has them counted; sends them benign instructions, grinds them into poverty with impossible demands for taxes.

To Musca he is merely a motionless figure. He is dressed in loathsomely clean robes, robes that are changed several times daily to meet the demands of protocol. At least the oils that scent those garments hold some fascination; even from her perch high above, Musca detects enticing undernotes of fish organs and long-fermented rotten flower-petals. Her olfactory equipment is perfect. Musca can smell death from ten miles away, then be there in an hour laying eggs in the corpse. Most attractive to her here are the teetering gold comports of ripe fruit, where pears and apples hold a sensuous hint of decay. She notices the bold stickiness left on a porphyry table, where a goblet has been carried away by a painted slaveboy, leaving dark fluff to accumulate where the cleaners’ sponges have continually missed a three-week-old circle of dripped wine.

Musca sees possibilities for a landing place on the man’s partly bald head. To a housefly, as to anybody else, this cavernous room is the height of luxury. Too much is inhospitable for Musca, though. True, high up in these festoons of drapery lie ancient seams of dust, while the comings and goings of numerous people far below have tramped in dropped hair, dander and street detritus — sometimes even a sublime slick of dog or donkey faeces or a drunk’s vomit. But too many surfaces are hard and bare. Pre-dawn, the court has been prepared with busy activity, polishing its expensive sheen to befit its occupant. Some places have even been properly washed.

Not all. Slaves have no incentive to reach high or sponge crannies.

The solitary man promises entertainment. Taking off with a light spring, Musca begins a slow test run, at first swooping gently from one side of the room to the other. She alights upon a branch of an ornate, five-foot-high candelabrum, gazing around. Though he seems to sleep, she remains watchful. With large eyes that have many lenses and all-round vision, she can see everything within the room. That includes the broken bodies of several of her relatives, prone on the surface of a marble table in front of the human. The stabbed corpses lie around an expensive writing pen with a sharp nib. She sees this, but learns little from it. Dead relations hold no interest. Suspicion is Musca’s watchword, yet flies are not sentimental.